


A Depth of Unfamiliarity

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Even though it is Friday, Greg is - as always - a saint, Loveable arseholes, M/M, Mycroft is way out of his depth, Sherlock & John are arseholes, Tuesday Trope, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13550868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: Quite unexpectedly, Mycroft finds himself in charge of baby Watson.  Not knowing a thing about babies he turns to someone he knows who does.  Gregory Lestrade.





	A Depth of Unfamiliarity

**Author's Note:**

> So, I decided to do another Tuesday Trope and this week it was ‘Accidental Baby Acquisition’. And, well, since John and Sherlock already have a baby, I thought I would give Mycroft a taste of parenthood - well, a taste of responsible adult towards a small child.  
> Now, I know what you are all saying - “But it is Friday” and I apologise. I did start it on Tuesday, but I was a bit not well. Goddamn summer colds. But here it is, later than Tuesday, but then again, that seems to be the theme with my Tuesday Tropes.  
> Hope you enjoy :D
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft Holmes was many things.  He was a son and a brother.  He was a colleague and an enemy (an arch enemy in some cases).  He was a supervisor and a leader.  He was strong, honest, loyal (to the right people).  He was fearless (except when clowns were involved, but that was of no importance at the moment) and feared.  He was a formidable presence, even when he could not be seen.  He was clever, intelligent and brilliant. 

There were also several things that Mycroft Holmes was not.  He was not prone to outbursts of emotion.  He was not sentimental.  He was not forgiving.  He was not an idiot.  He was not friendly.  He was not a pushover, someone easily bullied.  He was not one for leg work.  He was not forgetful.  And he most certainly was not a babysitter.  

This was why the sound of his brothers and Doctor Watsons footsteps, quickly receding down the stairs, barely even registered as a small, eleven month old, small human, looked up at him and  _ giggled _ of all things.

God lord.  What was happening?  And more importantly, how did he stop this from happening?

He had come over to annoy his brother, under the guise of needing Sherlock to do legwork, which they were both perfectly aware that Mycroft had agents who were perfectly capable of doing, but this was the least suspicious way of socialising with his brother.  It certainly wouldn’t do if he just dropped by for a cup of tea and despite how they acted towards each other, they both did like the others company.  Within reason.  He certainly wouldn’t want to live under the same roof as Sherlock again, but him coming to Baker Street with an unnecessary case or Sherlock bursting into his office about complaints of surveillance equipment that they both knew weren’t in the flat served as a perfect cover for seeking out each others company in perfect moderation.  

But that wasn’t what had happened on this visit.  Mycroft had barely made it through the door, noting the hasty way Doctor Watson was putting on his coat. 

“Ah, perfect timing Mycroft” Sherlock had said, stepping from the kitchen, Rosamund in his arms.  “An emergency has cropped up and we can’t find a sitter.”  And with those words Mycroft had dropped his umbrella and briefcase in order not to drop the small human that had been thrust into his arms.  

“She has been bathed, there is a bottle for bedtime in the fridge, just heat it up for her and if she requires a snack before then, there are mashed strawberries also in the fridge.  Don’t heat those up” his brother rushed, as Mycroft held the baby back towards Sherlock, who was also putting his coat on.  Much to Mycroft’s confusion, Sherlock didn’t take the child back.

“She’ll let you know when she is tired” Doctor Watson chimed in and then they were headed towards the door while he was informed that Rosamund was due for a bowel expulsion at any time.

As Mycroft thought through all that had happened in the last three minutes, Rosamund giggled again.  Mycroft wasn’t accustomed to this.  People didn’t  _ giggle _ around him.  There had been plenty of polite laughs, false laughs and sinister laughs, but never a  _ giggle _ .  At least, not directed at him and not for anything he had done.  He didn’t know what to do.  

He studied the baby in his arms.  While she strongly resembled her mother, there was no doubting that John was indeed her father.  Mycroft had had doubts, but then again, he hadn’t wanted to think too fondly of the woman who put a bullet in his brothers chest.  Unfortunately though, she was extremely likable - as far as Mycroft would allow himself to actually like someone.  And useful.  Her death was a tragedy.

Mycroft looked down at Rosamund Watson and she in turn, looked up at him.  Her smile faded and a look of sheer concentration crossed her features.  Then, she cocked her eyebrow in a way that was very familiar but was not in any way Watson.

“Oh for crying out loud” Mycroft mumbled.  “You have been around my brother too long.”

At the sound of being spoken to, because Mycroft was sure that a child of this age could not understand the syntax of basic English language, the child broke out into another round of giggles, this time, drawling down her chin as she did so. 

Mycroft’s response was to pull a grimace, which caused the child to laugh even more.  The child clearly had her fathers sense of dry humour.  

Mycroft looked around for somewhere to sit.  Surprisingly, the flat was still somewhat tidy.  Clearly not up to his standards, but Sherlock never had been as particular with where he placed his belongings.  

Johns chair was clear of clutter, but Mycroft really did find it hard to get of these days, not that he would ever let Sherlock know that, but Sherlock wasn’t there.  Sherlock’s chair was out of the question because his violin was perched on it.  That left the sofa. 

Mycroft made his way over to the sofa, successfully dodging all plastic blocks and stuffed monkeys on the way and carefully lowered himself onto the seat.  The whole time, Rosamund had been babbling away to herself and tugging on the buttons of his waist coat.  At least she had left his tie pin alone.  That was an heirloom, going back several generations.

Clearly, the child did not like the fact that Mycroft had sat down, as she started wiggling and her babbling started turning into growling.  Thinking that she was restless, Mycroft made the mistake of lowering her onto the floor, next to what he thinks was supposed to be a toy cat.  It was hard to tell, with all the ribbons and buckles that decorated it, not to mention it was pink and green.  Definitely not the colours of a healthy, living specimen of domestic feline. 

Within seconds, Rosamund’s bottom lip dropped and started quivering, her eyes teared up and tiny little, feeble sobs started to leave her mouth, causing her little chest to hitch with every inhale.

Mycroft picked up the maybe-cat and waved it in her face, hoping it would grab her attention.  

It did not.

It just made her cry more.

Picking the child up once more seemed to work as her pitiful sobbing ceased and she seemed to relax in his arms again.  God only knew why.  Being held so rigidly couldn’t be a comfort for anyone, but clearly, the child was more content at being held than being placed on the floor and if that was to mean no crying then Mycroft would hold her until his insufferable brother and his equally as impossible best friend came back from whatever ‘emergency’ had led them to leaving Mycroft, of all people, alone with the child.

Carefully sitting the child on his lap and holding her hip so she didn’t topple off, as he had seen so many mothers do with their own young in the past, Mycroft managed to make one of his hands free and was delving into his pocket to retrieve his phone when Rosamund made a noise.  It wasn’t a very comforting noise, at least not for Mycroft and as she grunted again, John’s words, about her needing a nappy change sometime soon, came back to him.

There was another grunt and Mycroft actually felt the nappy, against his thigh, expand, before Rosamund let out a small sigh of relief.

Mycroft felt his eyes widen with horror. This was not happening.  This could not be happening.  There was a reason he didn’t have children.  Well, actually, there were multiple reasons, but this was definitely one of them.  The mess, the smell, the - oh, god, what was he going to do?

Mycroft quickly brought up his brothers number and called  him.  It went straight to voicemail.  He knew the result would be the same for Doctor Watsons number, but he tried anyway.

With a curse, he pulled up Jane’s number.  His thumb hesitated.  He had promised his assistant a complete night of no interruptions, unless of course, a national crisis arose.  

Surely she would see that this was indeed a crisis, even nearing one of an international scale.  There was feaces, which was now starting to disperse via gas particles in the air, which were not his own.  If it wasn’t dealt with soon, it was going to become worse.

His thumb hovered and hoverd.  Christ, he had never been this indecisive in his life.  He could call someone else, one of his other agents but he knew, despite their confidentiality contracts, that they liked to gossip.  The last thing Mycroft needed was for it to get around office that he was bested by an eleven month old.

He was so tempted.  Surely Jane wouldn’t mind.  After all, she could celebrate her second wedding anniversary this time next year.

He was about to tap on her name when another name caught his eye, just below hers.  

**_Lestrade_ ** _ , Gregory.  _

It couldn’t hurt.  Surely he would understand.  He was, after all, a very understanding person.  One had to be when dealing with Sherlock on a regular basis.  Not to mention, he was at times funny.  And he had nice eyes.  Not that that had anything to do with anything, but it was a point on his list of positive attributes.  

And on top of it all, he had children of his own. They were now in their teens and were, hopefully, completely toilet trained, but the fact was, he would know what to do.  Plus, he dealt with bodily fluids all the time.  A soiled nappy would be nothing compared to the bloodbath he had investigated just last week (and it literally, was a bloodbath.  Sherlock had taken great pleasure in bringing up crime scene photos on his phone to show Mycroft while they were at a five star restaurant).

Deciding that this was definitely the best option for all involved, Mycroft made up his mind and called Detective Inspector, Gregory Lestrade.

~o~

Across London two men sat at a dimly lit bar, bent over their drinks, tears streaming down their cheeks and their lungs gasping for breath.

“Oh my god” the blond one managed to get out after drawing in enough breath.  “Did you see the look on his face when you shoved her into his arms?”  At this a fresh wave of chuckles burst from the two men, both barely able to stay perched on their stools, so violent was the laughter coming from them.

“It was…” the taller of the two started, but he had to stop to desperately draw in more air.  “It was nothing compared to the way the colour drained from his face…” and here, more laughter erupted from the two of them, one a higher pitched giggle than his friends deeper chuckle.  “When you told him that she hadn’t had a dirty nappy all day and would be due one in the next hour or so.”  The words were rushed out in order to beat the onslaught of fresh cachinnation that burst forth out of his mouth.  His friend nearly fell off of his stool with his answering guffaw.  The only thing stopping him was the quick reflexes of his partner in crime, whos hand shot out and steadied his movements by landing on his shoulder.  

This didn’t stop either of them laughing, nor did the various different looks they were getting from the other patrons of the pub.  It seemed that there was nothing that was going to stop these two men, one short and one tall and both still perfectly sober, from cackling away like loons, anytime soon.

~o~

“All done” Gregory announced, picking Rosamund up and swinging her above him, before lowering her so he could blow raspberries against her stomach.  The child squealed with delight, causing Mycroft to wince, and then he swung her down so she rested on his hip, where the child seemed content to stay.

“So” Gregory asked with a smile on his face.  “How did you, of all people manage to get roped into babysitting duties?”

Gregory had answered his phone immediately, once Mycroft had called.  Once he realised there was no emergency (well, not something that he had classed as an emergency) he agreed to come over and deal with Rosamund and her bodily fluids, plus any other needs that may arise before he got to Baker Street.  

Mycroft had been surprised at Gregorys willingness to come straight over and with little-to-no coercion on Mycroft’s behalf.  In fact, the phone call had only taken one minute and three seconds.

He had, once he arrived, laughed at Mycroft’s predicament, but there was no malice behind it.  Something that had settles Mycroft’s turmoil, greatly.

“I am still trying to figure that out myself” Mycroft said, answering the other man’s question.

“Well, if you have more important things to do, I can stay and watch her until Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum get back home.”

“Which one is Tweedle-Dee?” Mycroft asked, without even thinking about it.

Gregory just chuckled.  “I’m still trying to figure _that_ _ one _ out myself” he replied, practically mirroring Mycroft’s words back to him.

Mycroft considered Gregorys offer.  It was true that he had intended this to be a quick trip to see his brother, but it wasn’t true that there was anything important that needed to be done.  At least, nothing that couldn’t be put off until tomorrow.  

The offer was tempting, but as he looked at Rosamund, leaning her head against Gregory’s shoulder, her thumb in her mouth, it occurred to him that John Watson had left his most prized possession in the care of Mycroft Holmes.  After all these years of John looking after Mycroft’s most prized possession, (with just the odd hiccup along the way), maybe he could return the favour.  Just this once, of course.  It wasn’t going to be a regular thing.  And after all, surely the worst of all possible scenarios, (short of death or kidnapping), had passed.

He let out a weary breath of a sigh.  “Thank you for your kind offer Gregory, but I have used up enough of your free time as it is.  I am sure I can manage from here on in.”

Gregory gave a short nod and Mycroft was concerned that he couldn’t read the expression on his face.  Not that it lasted long.  Before Mycroft could ponder it more, Gregory was whispering to Rosamund to behave herself and then he gracefully handed her over to Mycroft, who took with much less elegance.

“Give us a call if anything else crops up, yeah?” Gregory said, earnestly, as he slipped his jacket back on.  

Mycroft ignored the way Rosamund was now sucking on the lapel of his jacket, and ignored the disappointment of watching Gregory prepare to leave and offered the man a smile instead.  And not one of his usual smiles, the smiles he used when he wanted to intimidate or placate someone.  No, this smile was rarely used.  It was genuine, if a bit small.  It felt odd, like it no longer fit his face and he let it fade away. 

“Thank you Gregory.  Your expertise was muchly appreciated.”

Gregory gave another short nod, bid Mycroft goodnight and headed for the door, only to stop once he reached the landing.

“You know, I could just stay to keep you company” he said, turning back around to face Mycroft and Rosamund.  Mycroft couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the man looked...hopeful?

“That and, going by my own experience with my own kids, sometimes that is not the only dirty nappy for the night.  Sometimes they like to surprise you with another one when you least expect it.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure how his life had turned into talking about soiled nappies and children, but for the life of him, he couldn’t have wished for a better evening.

“Well, in that case” Mycroft said, not sure if accepting was a good idea but damning it all anyway.  “If we are not keeping you from anything pressing.”

Gregory gave a short shake of his head.  “Just a few beers and reruns of CSI.”

“I thought you would have had enough of police work without coming home to watch more.”

“I like to pick out all that they do wrong” Gregory replied with a smile and Mycroft felt himself smiling back.  He could see why Sherlock had taken to the man with such ease.  It was no hardship to like the man.

“Well, in that case, welcome back” he said, stepping aside and allowing the man to enter the living room one more time.

~o~

The evening had gone well.  Rosamund hadn’t needed her snack nor another nappy change.  In fact, not long after Gregory had offered to provide company for Mycroft, the child had fallen asleep and Gregory, being more gentle with the child, had placed her in the cot that had been set up in the corner of the living room.  

Mycroft knew without a doubt, that could a third bedroom be built into 221B Baker Street, Doctor Watson would have moved back in long ago.  Possibly before the room, he was currently sitting in, had been blown to pieces.  As it is, he was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t found a way to keep the mould out of apartment C in order for the Watsons to move in downstairs.

Once the child was in her cot, a stuffed bee clutched in her tiny fist (no doubt a gift from his brother) Mycroft braved the kitchen and managed to find two clean glasses and a half empty bottle of whisky.  He wasn’t game enough to add ice to the cups.  Knowing his brother, it was guaranteed that it was water that was frozen in the ice cube trays, so they had the whisky neat.  

“To surviving a baby” Gregory toasted, lifting his glass.

“To getting back at my brother” Mycroft toasted back.

He had told Gregory how the events of the evening had transpired.  Unfortunately, the man had no idea where the two men had absconded to and Mycroft couldn’t be bothered looking for them.  Clearly, this had been a joke that they had been wanting to play for a while.  It hadn’t been the first.  Since the night they had broken into his house and terrorised him with the spectre of his sister, Sherlock and John had made it a habit to try and ‘ _ pull one over on him _ ’ at least once a month.  

This particular incident had already been retaliated, unbeknownst to the two men.  When they next logged onto their respective websites they will be met, courtesy of Mycroft’s very talented woman in IT, Margot, with all manner of sparkly, cute animals dancing to something called  _ Caramelldansen _ .  Mycroft and Gregory had already looked at both of their websites.  The song was truly annoying and the images were sickenly sweet.  Rosamund had been absolutely delighted at both blogs, trying to reach the screen of Mycroft’s phone when he brought the newly designed websites up.  Already there were a myriad of comments about the new look, Gregory adding his own, and messaging many of their acquaintances before Sherlock found a way to get around Margot’s complex coding.  But, they had to notice things had been changed first before they could fix them.  That would teach them for turning off their phones.

It had actually been Gregorys idea to trifle with John’s website.  Mycroft had only wanted to get back at his brother, because he knew this was all Sherlocks idea, but Gregory had pointed out that John was encouraging and enabling him.  He also should be punished, so Mycroft had sent off another message to Margot and to both of their delights, both the _Science of Deduction_ and the _Personal Blog of John H Watson_ , had been altered.

The two men sat in silence and sipped on the whiskey.  It was good whisky.  He could say what he liked about his brothers taste in interior decorating or his blase’ attitude towards food, but the man did have good taste when it came to alcohol.  

“So, how have things been?” Gregory asked, breaking the comfortable silence that the two of them had slipped into.

“Hmm?” Mycroft asked, looking up from the amber liquid in his cup, to the man sitting next to him on the couch.

“Since the thing with your sister and all that.  I haven’t seen you since then.  Was just wondering how you had been.”

“Oh” Mycroft replied.  Had it really been that long since they had seen each other?  And how had he been?  His initial impulse was to say that things were fine, that they had settle back to normal quite perfectly, but that was a lie and for some reason it didn’t seem right to lie to this man.  

This is the man who had retrieved him from his return from Sherrinford.  He had escorted him home and had made sure someone, Jane, was able to sit with him, to make sure he wasn’t alone after going through the experience he had.  He hadn’t downplayed what had happened, as Mycroft had tried to do, nor had he mollycoddled Mycroft and tried to shield him away from the big bad world.  He hadn’t judged him for his apparent many mistakes, nor had he insist that Mycroft need time to recuperate.  All he had done, was meet him at the airfield, where the helicopter had dropped him off and driven him home after Mycroft had declined a trip to the hospital for a once over.  The only thing he had insisted on was having someone there, at Mycroft’s home, that first night.  That was it. 

Since then, it had been business as usual.  The odd email or text message whenever Sherlock was too, well, Sherlock.

“As well as I can be, I suppose” he answer.  It was true enough.  “There is still the work that needs doing, there is still Sherlock to monitor.  There is still our sister.  Our parents insist we all go see her every few weeks.  I don’t understand why.  The only person she responds to is Sherlock, and I certainly would be happier forgetting that she is there, but there you have it.”  He finished his little spiel, a bit more detailed than he had originally planned, by draining his glass.  The burn of the liquid sliding down his throat was good.  

“Don’t you ever just take time to be you?”

The question was odd in Mycroft’s ears, like the words didn’t quite compute. 

“I don’t understand” he finally admitted.

“Well, I just asked how you were and you mentioned work, Sherlock and your sister.  Not once did you mention something that was just you.  Surely there is something that you like to do that has no impact on anyone but yourself.”

Mycroft looked to Gregory.  He wasn’t sure how to answer the question.  He didn’t like that feeling.  It wasn’t one that he was used to.  It sat wrong with him.

“For example” Gregory said, sitting around so he was facing Mycroft.  “I like to go home from work and watch cop shows and pick them to pieces.  It is relaxing.  I don’t owe anyone anything, there are no expectations of me and if I fall asleep doing it, then so be it.  I also like to pull out my blues records and put them on and just listen to them.  Sometimes I read while I’m doing it, other times I iron my shirts.  It is purely something that I like to do that has nothing to do with anyone else.”

Mycroft hesitated, wondering if he should indulge his method of turning off.  In the past, others have found it amusing.  Apart from Sherlock, and now apparently John, no one really knew of his ‘hobby’.

He looked to Gregory, who was looking at him expectantly.  “Come on, there must be something.  Even Sherlock has his violin.  That and the weird orange shit growing under the bathroom cupboard.”

At that, Mycroft smiled.  “I collect and watch old movies” he finally said.

Gregory gave a thoughtful nod.  “How old, are we talking?”

“1940’s to 1950’s.  Film noir to be more precise, with the style.”

Gregory grinned again and Mycroft wondered if he could get lost in that easy smile.  He was certain if he let his guard down, he probably could.

“Bit of a Lupino and Bergman fan?” Gregory asked, much to Mycroft’s surprise.  There were not too many people who knew actors from that era.

“More Burr and Bogart, actually.”  Internally he winced.  Had he let too much slip.  He had said it without thought, not something he was prone to do.

“Much preferred Robert Mitchum, myself” Gregory retorted settling back against the couch, surprising Mycroft even more.  

“ _ Out of the Past _ is considered to be one of the greatest of all films noir*” Mycroft announced.  Gregory gave an appreciative nod of his head.  

“He was good in that one.  So was Kirk Douglas.”

Mycroft gave a hum of agreement.  

“So you say you collect them?”

“Forty-seven” Mycroft answered before Gregory could finish his question.

“You have forty-seven DVD’s?”

Mycroft frowned.  “What, no, don’t be absurd.  I have a total of six DVD’s.”

Gregory looked confused.  Mycroft felt the need to clear it up.

“If you are going to watch old movies, you need to do it properly” he explained.  “All of those movies are on reel.  There used to be forty-eight but my brother and his partner…”  he let the sentence hang.  It was still a sore point that that particular movie was destroyed.  There were only three others in existence and none of the owners were prepared to part with their copies.

“Wait, what, you mean reels, with the big projectors and stuff?”

“Putting it simply, I suppose, yes, with the big projectors and stuff.”

“And you, what, sit in your lounge room and watch these movies alone?”

“Of course not.” Mycroft would never set the projector up in the living room.  Far too much light came in.  “I have a small domestic theatre room in my house.  I watch them there.”

“Domestic theatre…

“Yes, no windows, thick walls, surround sound, not that that is used when I watch the noirs, but I have been told it makes the experience of more modern movies that much more exciting.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too” Gregory replied, somewhat vacantly.

Again they slipped into silence and again, it was a comfortable one, with Mycroft nursing his empty glass and Gregory slowly swirling around the remains of his own.

Without knowing why, Mycroft felt the need to break the silence once more.  “I also correct Wikipedia entries” Mycroft announced.

As he had hoped, this brought a laugh from Gregory.  “Of course you do” he smiled and Mycroft decided that, yes, he could get lost in that smile.

When the silence settled once more, Mycroft decided that he would take the plunge and do something that he had never done before.  

“I have  _ When Strangers Marry _ ” he said quietly, not sure how it would be received.  “If you ever wanted to join me in watching it.”

There was a long beat of silence and Mycroft was sure Gregory was finding a polite way of refusing but then, again, he surprised him.

“That’d be great.  I’d love to watch it.  With you.” He quickly tacked on at the end, his smile looking genuine, but also a bit nervous.

A smile, the one that Mycroft wasn’t used to wearing, turned up the corners of his lips once more.  He was just about to suggest this upcoming weekend, when Rosamund whimpered from her cot and then started all out crying.

It was Gregory that got up to tend to her, to sooth her cries and he carried her back over to the couch and sat back down next to Mycroft.  It was then that Rosamund grizzled some more and reached her hands out for Mycroft. 

Multiple times that night, Mycroft had been left stumped, but it was this action, this one small gesture from such a tiny person that left him the most confused.  It wasn’t until Gregory nudged the child his way that, with slightly shaky hands, he reached out and took the child and pulled her onto his lap.  Instantly, she quietened down and, for a lack of better word, snuggled against Mycroft’s chest.

“Seems you have a knack for it” Gregory said quietly, yet fondly.

Mycroft sent him a slightly outrageous look.  “Or it could be that, just like her father, she has a penchant for latching onto extremely unlikely people.”

And there was that smile again, the genuine, truly amazing smile of Gregory Lestrade. “I guess they’re not the only ones.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say to this.  Once again, he was left speechless, not something he was used to but then again, that had been happening a lot that night.

As the child in his arms let out a happy, yet sleepy sigh, Mycroft settled back against the couch and got as comfortable as he could.  Gregory joined him and together they sat in silence, in the lamp lit room and waited for Rosamund to fall back to sleep.

~o~

Sherlock and John got out of the cab and made it to the front door of the building before they both broke into another round of hushed laughter.

“How long do you think he lasted?” John asked, sobering up some.

Another half chuckle left Sherlocks mouth as he pulled his keys out of his pocket.  “I dare say he was on the phone to Pharen or Claudelia or whatever she is calling herself these days, before the taxi even ferried us away from here.”

He unlocked the door and both men were met with a wave of warm air and quickly, they stepped inside.  “I’m just surprised he didn’t track us down and drag us back.”

“I was expecting one of his men to waltz into the pub and deposit Rosie onto my lap.”

“That was also a possibility” Sherlock agreed as they started their way up the stairs, both clearly still enjoying themselves and discomfort they had put the older Holmes brother through.

Their smiles dropped away, though, when they stepped into apartment B.

There, on the couch, in the dimly lit almost silent room, was Mycroft Holmes, head back and asleep.  On his lap was one Rosie Watson, her head on the centre of his chest, asleep and her arm extended out, grasping the shoulder of Lestrade’s shirt.  He in turn was also asleep, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I did not expect that” John said quietly, not able to pull his eyes away from the spectacle before him.

“No” was all Sherlock could reply with.  There was something oddly touching about seeing his brother look so...human. It wasn’t something that he saw even close to enough.  Silently, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.  

As the room briefly lit up with the flash on the phone, Lestrade cracked open an eye and directed it at the two of them.

“You two are arseholes.  You know that, right.”

The response he got was the two men in the doorway smiling proudly at apparent compliment.

~o~

With the baby tucked back in her cot and the sarcastic exchange between the two brothers about Mycroft having a lovely evening and Sherlock not doubting it for one second, (accompanied with a sly look in Gregs direction) both Gregory and Mycroft bid John and Sherlock goodnight and made their way out to the footpath in front of the building.

“Again, thank you for your assistance tonight, Gregory” Mycroft said, pulling on his gloves. 

“Don’t mention it, I had a good time” Gregory replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and Mycroft found himself mentally calculating what size gloves he would fit.  He quickly changed his line of thought.

“You are too polite” Mycroft replied.  While the evening had been, for the most part, peaceful it was clearly no one’s idea of a good time. 

Once more that evening, silence fell between the two men but this one wasn’t as comfortable as it had been in the flat.  This one felt like something was missing.  Like something was expected.  Clearly it was up to him, as Gregory was swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, just subtly, as if he were the one waiting for something.  Mycroft had no idea what it was.  

Soon, Gregory decided that he would wait no more.  “Well, I guess I had better go” he said, his head tilting away from Mycroft.  “Got work and all in the morning.”

“Quite right” Mycroft agreed quietly.

There was that silence again.  Mycroft hated it.  He wanted the comfort that inside had brought, back again.

“Alright.  Night then” Gregory said and with a wave, turned to leave.

It was then that Mycroft thought he knew what might be missing.  His initial impulse was to ignore it.  It wasn’t a good idea and had only been mentioned as part of a friendly conversation.  But the other part, the part he very rarely acknowledged, overrode that impulse to keep quiet and called out “How is this Saturday evening, for the film? And maybe dinner?”

Gregory stopped turning and looked up at Mycroft, that wonderful, wonderful smile back on his face.  

“Seven O’clock okay?  I’ll bring the wine.”

In turn that smile, that rare one that was now starting to feel more comfortable, made its home on Mycroft’s face.  “It’s a date.”

“I was hoping you’d say that” and with his smile turning into a cheeky grin, Gregory turned and walked away from Mycroft, to where his car was parked, further down the street.

Mycroft watched until he got in his car and drove off.  Then he looked back up to the second floor of 221B Baker Street.  In the window, stood his brother.  When he saw Mycroft looking at him, he gave a nod of his head.  Mycroft took it for what it was.  His brother approved, and then he turned and made his way to his own car, for once looking forward to the weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> *Mycroft is quoting from wikipedia, which we now know that he writes, updates and/or corrects.
> 
> This here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A67ZkAd1wmI - is the song that Margot put on Sherlock and Johns website. They will hear it every time they open their sites and a manner of all cute and sparkly things will dance to the very irritating music.  
> I imagine a rainbow going over the title of Sherlocks webpage with a very majestic unicorn galloping across it.


End file.
